


scribble

by Merricat_Blackwood



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Crayons, Ficlet, Gen, No shame november, Solo family feels, posted w minimal editing bc i am trying to love and trust myself more, smol Ben, this was supposed to be cute and i went and made it sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:52:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8524879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merricat_Blackwood/pseuds/Merricat_Blackwood
Summary: Kids like presents, usually.  Most kids.  But Ben Solo isn't like most kids.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astropixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astropixie/gifts).



**scribble**

 

As he walks into the kitchen, Han thinks, with unaccountable anxiety, _I hope this works._

It ought to work. Kids like presents, usually. Most kids. But Ben Solo isn't like most kids.

Han clears his throat to get his son's attention. As usual lately, the boy's dark gaze when turned upon him makes him feel like he's being taken apart and found lacking. But it only makes him more determined to try harder. “Brought you something, kid,” he says.

Ben shuffles towards Han slowly, his sock feet sliding across the floor, his thumb in his mouth, his brow furrowed. A stray lock of dark hair falls over his forehead, and Han wants to smooth it back into place, so perhaps it's for the best that his hands are full. At eight years old, Ben doesn't always like having his hair messed with anymore; he'd probably just pull back with a frown if Han tried it. He doesn't like being picked up and spun around, he doesn't like being thrown over his his father's shoulder, or tickled, or teased … a lot of the things that Han Solo used to be able to count on to make his son smile only make him unhappy now.

He's hoping he can win a smile today.

“What is it?” Ben asks, suspiciously. He removes his thumb from his mouth and edges closer to his father, trying to peek around him to where Han hides the present behind his back.

“It's a surprise,” Han insists, turning to thwart the boy. Ben scowls, looking absurdly like Leia as he does, but he stops trying to peek. Still, he appears skeptical, almost like he's afraid of something. How many other children fear surprises? _Did I do something to make him expect the worst from me?_

Han wishes away the dark thoughts; he knows they aren't true. It's just an old insecurity talking, one that's probably never going to shut up; he's been a father for eight years now and he's still not sure he knows _how_ to be one. He just knows he's never going to give up.

“So I ran into some traders,” he tells Ben, “while I was away. They come from a planet far, far away from here, beyond the Outer Rim, where they still use paper sometimes ...”

Ben's eyes widen slightly. “Paper?”

Han produces it from behind his back with a flourish and a grin: a thick sheaf of white paper, which he fans out like an overlarge deck of cards.

Ben studies it for a moment, then reaches out his fingertips and brushes them across the smooth surface of the paper. Han watches the boy's expression change from caution to wonder, and for the first time since Han got home from his trip, Ben looks up and meets his father's eyes directly.

“This stuff is made from _trees_?” he asks, his brown eyes wide and round as moons.

Han grins wider, the hope in his heart warming and expanding. “Yep. Sure is.”

“Whoa,” Ben says under his breath. He pokes at the paper again, carefully considering the way it bends and folds at his touch.

“Go on, kiddo,” Han urges him. “Take it.”

Ben blinks up at his father. “It's for me? All of it?”

“All of it,” Han confirms.

Ben reaches for the paper with a mingling of eagerness and caution. Just in time, Han remembers.

“Careful with the edges,” he warns as he hands the paper over. “They can cut you. Found that out the hard way.” His fingertips are still stinging.

“I'll be careful,” Ben says, without the note of resentment that Han's become accustomed to hearing in his son's voice when he tries to give advice. Ben gingerly holds the sheaf of paper in his hands, and is quiet for a moment. He seems to be processing something, so Han waits.

“What do I _do_ with it?” Ben asks, looking back up to his father.

“I was hoping you'd ask.” From his pocket, Han produces several bright objects in a colorful sleight of hand, and Ben does a double take. Tucking the paper under his arm, he sidles forward to lean and inspect his father's gift.

“What are these?”

“The traders called 'em crayons,” Han explains. “They're made out of wax and dye. What you do is, you use 'em to draw with, on the paper. So you can draw pictures like you do on your pad, only instead of using your finger, you use the crayons. And they're all different colors. See?”

 _You're trying too hard,_ Han thinks chidingly, _and the kid knows it. You're gonna lose him._

But Ben doesn't seem lost. He seems fascinated by the colorful sticks, and takes them in his small hands much more eagerly than he did the paper. Ben has yet to say a “thank you” for the present, not that Han necessarily expected him to. Ben doesn't always remember his pleasantries, and sometimes it seems like he's deliberately withholding them ... but unless Han's mistaken, this isn't a deliberate rudeness. _He's just too interested in the new stuff to pay much attention to his old man, that's all ..._

Ben's dark eyes flick up to meet his father's at once. "Thank you," he says in an oddly pointed tone.

Han shifts uncomfortably, his skin prickling. It puts him on edge when Ben does stuff like that: speaking to his thoughts instead of his words. Surely there's no way an eight year old kid could actually be reading his mind, but that's what it seems like sometimes.

"You're welcome, kid," is all he says, and stuffs his hands in his pockets to resist the urge to muss Ben's hair. "Go on, try 'em out."

Ben makes his way to the kitchen table, sets the paper and the crayons down on its surface, and climbs up into his chair. Han pours himself a drink and sits down opposite his son, whose small face is scrunched into an expression of concentration as he picks up each of the crayons, one by one, and rolls them between his chubby fingers.

"I like the way they smell," Ben remarks, half-smiling as he holds a red crayon close to his nose.

Han nods and smiles back. "Yeah, I liked that about them too." There was something messy and flawed and textured and natural about the crayons, something that, without even consciously realizing it until now, Han had thought suited his son much better than the smooth sterility of a datapad. Even the sheets of blank paper, soft and pristine but with their razored edges, made him think of Ben instinctively.

Ben scoots to the edge of his chair and presses the tip of the crayon to the white sheet of paper, dragging a slow and ragged red line across the surface. "Like this?" he asks, looking up at Han, cocking his head inquisitively.

"Looks about right to me. What are you gonna draw?"

"We'll see," says Ben, putting down the red crayon and reaching for a brown one. He rests his elbows on the paper to hold it in place, puts his head down, and starts scribbling.

A few minutes pass, the only sound the scratch-bump of Ben's crayon, steadily increasing in speed as he gets more comfortable, and the slight rustle of the paper. Han cranes his head and catches a glimpse of the drawing, but before he can see what it is Ben's covered it with his arms and is frowning –

a fierce look, but not with any real heat behind it – at his father.

"It's a surprise," he says sternly.

"Oops, my mistake," Han replies, grinning as he sits back in his chair. His anxiety has pretty much evaporated; if Ben didn't like the drawing materials he would have abandoned them by now. _Maybe I got something right with Ben for once._ "So, when do I get to see it?"

"When it's done," Ben informs him in a chastising way, and returns to his drawing, keeping one arm around the paper as a shield from his father's prying eyes, looming his small frame over it so his nose almost touched the paper.

The subject of the drawing turns out to be an enormous scrawl of brown fur with black eyes and a black nose.

"Do you think Chewie will like it, Dad?" Ben asks, his eyes bright.

"Like it? Kid, I think he'll frame it and put it on the wall of his treehouse."

Ben smiles hugely, revealing the dimple in his cheek, and reaches for a gold crayon. "I'm going to draw Threepio next."

 

\- - -

 

When Ben Solo decides he likes a thing, he really, _really_ likes that thing. And he really, really likes drawing. He likes the way the crayons smell and he likes the way the paper sounds when it crinkles and he likes the way the crayons feel in his hands and he likes drawing layers and layers of color over each other and then scraping them back with his fingernails to reveal the paler patterns underneath. He especially like the praise he receives from Leia, Han, Luke, Lando, Chewie, and pretty much everyone he shows his artwork too. (Even Threepio, when proudly presented with the drawing of himself, exclaimed over it: “Why, bless my circuits! What a fine likeness, Master Ben!”) Within two weeks, all of the crayons are worn down to nubs and Ben has taken to tearing the sheets of paper into fourths and drawing small pictures, working very slowly and very carefully, to make sure that no blank space is wasted. Even so, soon he's down to his last sheet.

Han returns from his next trip with a crate stacked to the brim with paper and another crammed with crayons. When he beholds this bounty, Ben beams and throws his arms around Han's middle, giving him a rare hug.

“Thanks, Dad,” he mumbles against Han's stomach.

Han takes this opportunity to rumple Ben's hair for the first time in weeks. “No problem, kid,” he says thickly.

 

\- - -

 

The next thing that Ben Solo does to things he likes is attempt to master them, and he usually succeeds. Stick figures and lopsided doodles steadily morph into detailed sketches of every imaginable alien species, rich landscapes, bright nebulae.

By the time he's ten, he doesn't draw every day, but when he does, he does so deftly, crafting skillful images with the childish implements.

Today is a drawing day, it seems. Ben is already at the kitchen table when Han wakes up, and he's clearly been at it for a while; paper and crayons litter the surface of the table and there are bright flecks of wax under his nails.

"What's this one?" Han asks, reaching to scoop up a slightly crumpled piece of paper on the kitchen floor.

"Oh, just some doodles," Ben says absently. "For practice." His fingers fly over the paper in front of him, laying out the skeletal outlines of a massive Star Destroyer against a background of cosmic conflict: TIE fighters locked in battle with X-wings, laser blasts criss-crossing the space between them while asteroids float blank and dead in the background. Han averts his eyes from the colorful carnage, and focuses in on the rumpled page he's holding in his hands.

His first thought, unkind as it is, is that he can see why Ben discarded it. The stick figures and skewed ships scattered across the paper are reminiscent of the drawings he did when he was eight, not the more complex ones he's capable of now. And yet ...

Han feels himself smiling as he studies the picture. "Hey, kid," he says, waving the paper into the periphery of Ben's vision. "Mind if I keep this one?"

Ben barely even blinks. "Sure, Dad. Whatever.”

Han carefully folds the paper into fourths and tucks into the pocket of his nerf-leather jacket.

 

\- - -

 

_Damn rathtars._

It's been a long, bloody day, one he'll be glad to see the end of. He never should have taken this job in the first place, but then, he and Chewie needed the money. And besides ... if Han Solo starts down the mental path of things he should or shouldn't have done, then he's going to be on it for a very long time.

With a groan and a stretch, Han sits down hard and heavy in his seat. His muscles have been aching for hours ... gallivanting about the galaxy is a game for the younger crowd.

But he doesn't know how to do anything else. He never has.

Han reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper, frayed and fuzzy at the edges, slightly faded and stained. Why not look at it? After all, he's already in pain.

Slowly, Han traces the figures in the drawing: the behemoth mass of brown fur that is Chewie, the smooth and shiny gold plating of Threepio, a squat blue and white Artoo-Detoo, Luke in his black robes, with his green lightsaber drawn. Dominating the upper-right-hand corner of the paper is the gray disc of the Falcon, and beneath that are three figures, rendered sloppily and without much thought, their edges softened and blurred by time. A rangy figure with a black vest and a blaster on his hip and a comically wide smile on his face. A petite but imposing figure with a waterfall of beautiful brown hair and a white dress. And between them, short and curly-haired and round-cheeked, stands the imperfect melding of them both: liquid brown eyes and a prominent nose and a severe expression marred by the pout of his mouth.

 _Wonder what he looks like now._ Last time he saw Ben, he was still growing, the pieces of him still coming together: an incomplete work of art.

Last time he saw Ben …

Han closes his eyes against the sting of tears, feeling the picture shaking in his hands. He'd sort of thought or maybe just hoped that one day, he would run out of tears to shed, or at least grow adept at holding them back. Instead, the older he gets, the more the tears come upon him unexpected … and the less able he is to stop them when they do. His grief is a deep, quiet, unspoken, ever-present thing, like living with the pain of an improperly treated wound. He can ignore it for a while, but always again, it surfaces.

Han's slightly shaking fingers trace the faded surface of the drawing, and he draws a similarly shaky breath.

 _Does he still draw, ever?_ Does he create anything anymore? Or has he decided to turn his talents completely towards destruction, making blood and fire his medium, the galaxy his canvas? 

Does anything make Ben happy now?

Han closes his eyes, slumps forward heavily in his chair, puts his head in his hands. The paper crinkles slightly and he loosens his grip, unwilling to damage it further. He's kept this childish drawing with him for the past twenty years, no way he's going to lose it now. Apart from the old holos, the ones that hurt too much to look at, this is all he has left of his little boy.

_I was a husband. I was a father. What am I now?_

Alone, with his head in his hands and tears struggling at his eyes, Han Solo tries not to think, tries not to fall too hard into the past, but it's a massive chasm and he's losing his balance.

The sudden howling coming in over the comm is a mercy. Sitting up and blinking the sluggish tears away, he clears his throat to respond. Still, he's choked and raspy when he does.

“Slow … slow down, Chewie! You picked up _what_ on the scanners?”

Chewbacca's howls rise in speed and pitch; he's worked up, excited. And no wonder. The Falcon, after all these years? Han's on his feet before the sentence is fully out of Chewie's mouth, his heart soaring the way his ship used to.

“I'll be right there,” he says, the blood racing in his veins. “We're gonna get her back this time, Chewie.”

Chewie roars an enthusiastic confirmation, and Han takes a deep, steadying breath, pausing only to fold Ben's picture carefully and place it back in his pocket. Then he's off. His next adventure is here, just when he needed it the most. It's time to reclaim something he loves, something he thought was lost.

Something is burning in his heart, and as he races to the cockpit, Han remembers the name of this emotion.

Its name is hope.

 

**Author's Note:**

> boy, it feels good to write something. this little "scribble" was born from me sharing my headcanon of Ben with crayons with astropixie and she encouraged me to write a ficlet in which Han brings Ben some crayons back from a trip, and this is what happened. thank you for encouraging me to write this, and for always being so kind and encouraging in general. i love you lots <3


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